Cold Front
That particular Memorial Day weekend was a memorable one. It had been a chilly and damp spring, and we arrived at the hotel in Wildwood Crest on Saturday afternoon pallid and sun-starved.

It was a glorious day at last, a brilliant sun sailing in a deep blue sky with the temperature in the mid-seventies. A soft southerly breeze caressed the island , and we hastily unpacked, jumped into our bathing suits and flip-flops, gathered up our stuff, and hit the beach running.

There were several people already there – nothing like the season, of course – and we unfolded our beach chairs, generously applied sunscreen, and stretched out to enjoy the bountiful rays.

We hadn’t been there fifteen minutes when – lo and behold — a monster fog blew in from the ocean like something from a science fiction movie and within moments we couldn’t even see the hotel. We decided to wait it out, thinking of the old seashore saying that if you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes and it’ll change. So we waited and waited, feeling stranded and disoriented in the soupy mist. Nothing doing. The fog lay like a dispiriting blanket over both the island and our weekend optimism.

The temperature had fallen, too, and all we had were the tee shirts we’d worn. After a very long, cold half-hour, we packed it in and reluctantly trudged back to the hotel and warmth. In the room, we saw on the Weather Channel that all the Jersey Shore points were socked in by a stationary cold front, and the chipper young weather woman said that the fog would bewith us for the indeterminate future. Great. Trapped in a hotel room, the sun-drenched beach a rapidly fading memory, while the fog enveloped all our happy plans like a soggy gray dish towel.

After a lazy night of pizza and television, we awoke to more of the same. The Weather Channel’s prognosis hadn’t changed, and, after moping until noon, we decided to get out and meet the fog headon with a run on the Boardwalk.

We drove slowly through the thick vapors, and, wearing sweatshirts against the cool air, set out from the southern end of the boards. We couldn’t see more than twenty feet and the fog beaded up on our faces and bare legs before we’d gone a quarter mile. By the time we’d reached the Ferris wheel, now a vague, Tinker Toy outline, our sweatshirts were covered with a wet film. The only sound was the soft scuffling of our feet. We were in our own moving pocket of space and time, separate from the world as we knew it. Occasionally, other forms – runners, walkers, and even an occasional brave bicyclist – loomed out of the fog and floated past us, brief, fleeting ghosts. We both agreed that this was indeed a cool run, and settled in to enjoy it, our edginess and disappointment forgotten for the duration of our strange Boardwalk sojourn. But all good things must end, and presently we were back at the hotel, facing the gloomy prospect of another foggy day. When we passed the front desk, the woman there asked if there was anything she could do for us. I replied that she could bring back the sun.

“Well,” she said, “I live over at Reeds Beach, and it’s been sunny on the mainland all weekend.”

And away we went, primed for some rays. Reeds Beach has always been one of our favorite spots, and we felt like knuckleheads for not thinking of it. As usual, I had to keep my eyes peeled for the small sign on Route 47. The road leading out to Reeds Beach is nothing unusual, but after one last curve, suddenly the wetlands are on the right, sweeping out to the horizon, marsh grass bending gracefully in the wind. The two modern houses that stand at the entrance to North Beach Avenue, the single road, are misleading in their way; the unique, three-story affair to their left is more indicative of the place: jumbly, kind of patched-together, but actually well-considered and friendly, the many windows offering splendid views of both the Delaware Bay and the meadows. Reeds Beach, which is less than a mile long, is a picturesque hodge-podge of shacks, houses, and trailers, all set on a spit of land that is only 25 or 30 yards wide at some points. Some of the dwellings are well-kept and suburban, but most are weathered and well-used. It’s the kind of place that makes you want to live there. At the north end is Smokey’s marina on the right, and a jetty on the left, thrusting out into the bay to form a channel for the boat traffic. A sign at Smokey’s entrance says, “Private Property Patrons Only.” Reeds Beach is an accessible step back in time.

We parked on the road by Smokey’s, collected our beach gear, and made our way half-way out the jetty, and then walked down onto the pebbly beach and headed north. In the far distance, the land curved out into a graceful bow, sea gulls called, the sun rode high and handsome, and there was peace in the air.

We saw a likely spot, but before we could get there and settle down, we were distracted by two objects bobbing in the bay. As we approached, we could see that they were the heads of a white-haired man and a large dog. They were heading briskly for shore and got there just as we arrived. The man was quite old, but was spry and in good physical shape, his skin, albeit crinkly and lined, ruddy from the swim. The dog, a beautiful Irish setter, set about the serious business of shaking the water from its coat.

“Beautiful dog,” I said, “What’s his name?”

“Andy,” the man said.

“Early in the year for a swim.”

“Yep,” he said. “But it’s something I’ve been doing every Memorial Day for over sixty years now. We’re a day early this year, but I have to be at my great-granddaughter’s tomorrow for a barbecue.”

“Wow, sixty years. Why is that?”

“It’s how I remember my buddy, Rocky Hennessey. We landed together on Omaha Beach on D-Day and Rocky didn’t make it to shore, so I remember him with a swim on Memorial Day every year ... you know, the water and all that. Makes me feel better. I think he’d appreciate it, too. He was a good guy. Good soldier, too.” “That’s nice,” Mimmy said. “Thanks,” he said. “Enjoy your day.” And he and Andy headed off the beach.